


Something Vaguely Heart-Shaped

by TheSoupDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ...Lucky they both suit each other; eh?!, ...like I said - kitchens are not just for cooking..., Established Johnlock, First kiss..., Kitchens are very interesting places, M/M, Mycroft and Greg getting together, Mystrade Valentines Calendar 2018, Turns out Mycroft has an interesting kink..., Valentine’s Day, Well - what d’ya know? Greg has one too!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-03-31 16:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13979500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon
Summary: Spring is in the air. A young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love...and deviousness.From chapter 3:Mycroft sipped his own scotch slowly, using the glass to cover his mouth after he had spoken words he could hardly believe he was able to say. As he lowered the glass again, he licked his lips discretely, feeling the sweet burn of the whisky pass down his throat. He didn’t even realise he was doing it until it was done, but he had mirrored Greg’s stance in a postural echo, leaning back slightly against the worktop and crossing his legs at the ankle.“Really?”said Greg, thrilled at the candid admission, and noticing the body language. “Should I let you get a closer look just to make sure?”...





	1. Notes on White Paper

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to [StarsAndStitches](http://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches), for her unending enthusiasm and thoughtful and considered beta-reading...Not to mention her appreciation and total understanding of my somewhat warped and subversive sense of humour. (And also for telling me about this collection!) 
> 
> I know, I know; this is a Mystrade Valentine's Calendar story collection and I start mine with Johnlock. That's exactly what StarsAndStitches said. But please, bear with me...you'll get what you came for, I promise!! ;)

“Hey, I forgot the—what are you up to?” asked John, coming back into the flat abruptly, and belatedly realising from the sudden flurry of movement at the table in the sitting room, that he had just caught Sherlock doing something that he didn't want to be caught doing. “What are you doing?” asked John, and he went over to the table, but only to get the shopping list that he’d forgotten. Sherlock stayed seated at the table but he was obviously hiding something underneath it in his lap. John had a horrible idea that he knew what it was. His heart sank. Sherlock had been twitchy since stopping smoking again and John was worried. He wasn't a control freak, but if Sherlock was hiding something, John just wanted to know what it was. Both Sherlock’s hands remained discretely hidden, out of sight. John retrieved his list calmly from the other side of the table where he’d left it, without looking at Sherlock, and stood opposite him, folding the piece of paper over to fit it into his wallet. 

He didn’t want to be the parent here. “I’d really like there to be no secrets between us…” he said carefully, as he folded the list over again and then tucked it into his wallet on top of his Tesco clubcard. “…But if you've got some cigarettes under there, I’d really rather know about them than not.” He closed his wallet and put it back in his inside pocket, and only then did he look up at Sherlock’s face.  
Sherlock snorted in contempt at the very idea. “I do _not_ have any cigarettes under there,” he said sniffily. “Anyway, I have two patches on today.” He suddenly brought both hands out from under the table and pulled up his dressing gown sleeve, holding his right arm defiantly out to John to demonstrate them. John glanced at the patches and then back at Sherlock’s face again. He was relieved to see he was wrong about the cigarettes. “What _are_ you doing, then?’ said John, “Because there’s clearly something Secret Squirrel going on at this table…”  
Sherlock’s brows drew together. “Secret Squirrel?” he said, derisively.  
“Oh, come on, did you not _have_ a childhood? Secret Squirrel was one of those Saturday morning cartoons when we were kids…”  
“What was the general premise?” asked Sherlock, bringing his empty hands back to rest innocently on the table.  
“Well, he was a spy, so stuff was secret, and he was also a squirrel. Therefore, _'Secret Squirrel'_ …it was pretty elementary, really," said John. "I think he had some James Bond aspirations,” he added, and then he realised and started to smile. He pointed at Sherlock accusingly with an amused look on his face. “And _don’t_ try and distract me!” he said, which he suddenly knew was without doubt to be the actual point of Sherlock’s question.  
Sherlock began to smile too at that. “If this is how it’s going to be, John, I'm not so sure I can take it…You _knowing_ things…”  
John moved round the table to Sherlock’s side. “Oh, I know a _lot_ of things now that I didn’t know before,” said John mysteriously as he went, and when he got there, he leant down, a broad grin rising to his face. Sherlock couldn't help his own answering grin, but he didn't move as John leaned down and in and kissed him firmly on his smiling mouth. Sherlock returned the kiss quite enthusiastically and reached up to stroke his fingers through John’s hair. When the kiss broke, Sherlock said, “Then you also know I need coffee quite desperately, John.”  
John laughed. “That’s not all you need,” he said, filthily. “Right, I’m going. Can you tell me what you're doing or is it something I'll find out about later?”  
Sherlock looked amused. “If it works, you’ll find out later. If it doesn’t, I’ll tell you. And then I’ll make it work.”  
John snorted laughter at the last bit. But he was satisfied with the answer. “Ok. Tesco’s it is then,” he said. “See you later.” And off he went. 

By the time he got to Tesco’s - in fact, way before he’d even got through the automatic doors - he had been bombarded by Valentine’s Day merchandise everywhere and the incessant prompting to buy some of it for his Valentine…John didn’t really go for all this ‘Valentine’s day celebration’ stuff, he couldn’t help but feel it a cynical commercial attempt by the shops to simply extract more money from everyone now the enforced austerity of January was over, but all the same, he thought it might be a nice surprise to get _something_ vaguely heart-shaped for Sherlock, it was their first Valentine’s Day together—but then a thought struck him - Sherlock, earlier - surely _Sherlock_ , of all people, couldn't have been secretly…? ‘No,’ he thought. ‘No, come on! No way,’ dismissing the idea instantly out of hand as ridiculous. ‘There’s no way that would he buy into it - you’re delusional!’ he decided, and he grabbed a basket and got out his list. 

 

~~~~

 

While John was in Tesco’s, deciphering Sherlock’s scrawled additions to his list, Mycroft was at his desk speed reading an urgent missive from the foreign office in Venezuela. Suddenly Anthea popped her head through the doorway. “A note, sir,” she said, producing a sealed white envelope and holding it out delicately between finger and thumb. She seemed somewhat bemused.  
Mycroft looked at her. “A note?” he said.  
“Yah,” she replied and she brought it into his office. Mycroft made no move to take it so she deposited it on his desk. “Hand delivered,” she added, mysteriously, as she put it down. Mycroft glanced at it in consternation. Plain business style white envelope, no cellophane window, rather cheap stationery, his full name hand-written in a hand that he didn't recognise, right-handed writer, in a rush, black Bic biro, the word _‘PRIVATE’_ in capitals where the stamp should be, no other distinguishing features. He sniffed delicately. “Hand delivered by whom?” he asked, still not touching it.  
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. It was left at the front desk,” Anthea replied. “It’s been checked for…anything,” she added, unnecessarily.  
They both looked at the envelope.  
“Would you like me to open it, sir?” Anthea asked.  
“No. _I_ should like to open it. In private,” said Mycroft, slightly sternly.  
Anthea smiled. “Of course, sir,” she said. “I’ll leave you to it,” and she left the room.  
As she shut the door, Mycroft was coming to the end of his mental list of all the possible letter-writers of his acquaintance and was still none the wiser, so he picked it up and sniffed it. Nothing. Nothing of note anyway, just paper, so he reached for his letter opener and opened it. A single sheet of fairly nondescript white A4 paper was inside, and in the same scruffy but rather intriguing handwriting as the envelope, read the words, “I’ve seen you looking. Why don't you find out what you’d like to know? Constantine’s tonight at 8.”  
Mycroft was all at once totally horrified and deeply flattered. He was also stunned, floored and paradoxically delighted. He’d not seen this coming. Not in a million years. He’d thought there was certainly some chemistry, but…he swallowed. This was… _surprising._ How to accept or refuse the invitation, he wondered. There was no way to do so. The sender - and from the note’s contents, he now knew _exactly_ who it was - had offered no option to contact them to do either. 

He took up a sheet of private writing paper from his top drawer and his favourite pen, thought for just a moment and then started to write.

 

~~~~

 

 _‘Jesus!’_ thought Greg, still holding the piece of paper in his hand. He swallowed. _This was it, then. Hadn’t been expecting that!_ He swept a hand through his hair distractedly. He read and re-read the note. It remained unchanged. Thick, expensive pale cream paper, lovely neat but elaborate handwriting, and what was written there was blunt but straight to the point.  
‘Alright then,’ he thought. ‘What shirts have I got clean?’  
Sally Donovan chose that moment to knock on his open door, making him jump. “Hey,” she said, matter of factly, “We need to—” then she noticed and pointed at the paper in his hand accusingly, “— what’s that?”  
“This?” he said, sliding it under some paperwork none-too-discretely, “Ahhh…Just…dealing with it. It’s a…w—er...witness statement.”  
“Mmmm,” said Sally, believing that like she believed in fairies. She crossed her arms. “Not a Valentine’s card, then?” she asked, grinning impishly. “Who’s it from, Mrs. Lestrade, requesting a little romantic rendezvous?” She made a face to show she was just winding him up.  
“Get out of it!” laughed Greg, hoping she couldn't tell he was blushing. Sally would just about keel over if she knew who it was really from. “The ex-Mrs. Lestrade, you mean! Anyway, if it was from ‘er, I’d be setting fire to it right now!” Too late Greg realised he’d left the empty envelope on top of the pile of paperwork.  
Too late, indeed. Sally’s sharp eyes had drifted southwards. “Mmm. Doesn’t _look_ like Mrs. Lestrade’s handwriting…?” Sally said, thoughtfully, looking down at it pointedly. She raised her eyebrows and looked at him without lifting her head. Greg snatched the envelope and stuffed under the paperwork pile. “Look, haven’t you got work to do?” he shot back, but he was smiling.  
She smirked. “That’s what I was coming to tell you about,” she said, “Donnie Guttierez is downstairs, and he wants to make a confession…” and then she told him all about it. 

 

~~~~

 

“Why were you so long?” asked Sherlock, when John opened the flat front door.  
“Oh hello, John, how was Tesco’s?” replied John sarcastically, struggling to extract his key from the door, laden with shopping bags. “Let me help you with those bags…”  
Sherlock took the hint and got up from his armchair, coming over to take two of them from John. He carried them through and put them onto the table, digging through one to see what John had bought. “Did you get my kefir?” he asked, looking for it.  
“Oh! Bugger, was that the last thing you wrote?” John asked, grabbing the milk to put it straight in the fridge. “I couldn't decipher it. It looked a bit like ‘cat food’ but I didn’t think it was that. I tried ringing you but you didn't answer.”  
“Busy,” was all Sherlock said. “Never mind, John, it wasn't urgent, I’ll ask Mrs. H if she can get some from Sainsbury’s when she goes out.” He’d found the coffee and was looking for the scissors in the top drawer to open the packet.  
“Or you could just get it yourself?” suggested John, but he wasn't angry, just bemused. He paused. “Actually, you can unpack everything,” he said, “I just need to pop out again.”  
Sherlock looked at him but didn't ask what for. He just frowned. “You’ve only just got back,” he said.  
“I know,” replied John. “I’ve just got something I need to do. Back in about half an hour.”  
“Now who’s Secret Squirrel?” asked Sherlock, getting the caffetiere down from the cupboard, but he didn’t press for anything more. They had to have some secrets from each other.


	2. Black Walnut, Cream Linen and a Peacock Blue Tie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear patient Mystraders/Gregcrofters: This is the chapter you've been waiting for...well, the start of what you've been waiting for anyway! I promise there's so much more to come...

At 7.59 p.m., Mycroft stepped out of the anonymous black cab at the kerb outside Constantine’s. ‘How the hell did Gregory know about Constantine’s?’ he wondered. He certainly hadn’t mentioned the place when they’d been chatting. Mind you, he mused, on second thoughts, he wasn't absolutely sure _what_ he’d said. Too busy studying Gregory’s beautiful eyes, the way a lock of his silver hair fell forward and was swept back repeatedly. Did he even realise how very… _attractive_ he was, Mycroft wondered. Possibly not. And his voice….rough, deep and as hot as the seventh circle of Hell. Mycroft thought he could have burned there quite happily all night; listening to Gregory talk so knowledgeably about how the different types of Iberian ham were produced in Spain and Portugal, and then give detailed instructions on how to make the perfect Spanish rice pudding; following his grandmother’s recipe, using orange peel, lemon peel and a cinnamon stick to flavour it. Mycroft had listened to it all, discretely enraptured. He checked his watch. It was now 8pm exactly. He adjusted his cufflinks unnecessarily and straightened his tie, before pushing open the black walnut door.

He glimpsed himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror as he strode past it in the short, dimly-lit entrance foyer. The vast antique mirror took up the entire wall of one side of the small room. It had a black walnut frame which matched the front door, and was itself framed by delicate green leafed plants in tall dark pots. Mycroft did a double-take to throw a quick appraising glance over, but only to be sure he looked presentable. Yes, he thought, pleased with his appearance, he’d been _absolutely_ right about the new peacock blue tie after all. He had dithered slightly between this tie and his other new deep red one, as both went equally well with the charcoal grey suit, but no, he’d been right all along. Instincts were there to be trusted. As always. This particular tie really brought out his eyes, and it was a subtle but noticeable touch. He ran a hand lightly over his neat hair and, satisfied, stepped confidently into the reception area, the black-and-white chequered marble floor announcing his arrival. 

The maitre’d looked up and smiled in a welcoming but not-making-too-much-of-a-fuss way as Mycroft approached him. “Mr. Holmes,” he said, tipping his head in a courteous almost bow, “Please come this way, Mr. Lestrade is waiting for you in the bar,” and he stepped away from the desk to lead Mycroft towards it. ‘He’s a member, even?’ pondered Mycroft as he followed the maitre’d.

Gregory Lestrade was sitting with his back turned slightly to Mycroft and the maitre’d as they approached the private bar. He was wearing the same smart navy blue suit that he’d been wearing at the party and drinking clear liquid from a short glass. _Gin and tonic,_ deduced Mycroft automatically, from the style of the glass and the plump quarter of lime.  
“Mr. Lestrade, sir,” murmured the maitre’d, making Greg turn round in his seat and then hurriedly stand up. “Mr. Holmes has arrived,” he added, somewhat unnecessarily, and then he stepped back discretely. They both thanked him at the same time, and he left them for a moment to greet each other.  
“Well…hello!” said Greg, smiling awkwardly.  
“Good evening, Gregory,” said Mycroft, not exactly smiling but just as awkwardly.  
“So…” said Greg and he raised his eyebrows. _Here we are, then,_ he thought.  
“Yes. So..”  
“Well…here we are then!” said Greg, voicing his thought, purely to make Mycroft smile, even if just out of politeness.  
It worked - a bit - Mycroft’s lips curled upwards just the tiniest amount, but he still looked slightly awkward.  
_Oh bollocks,_ thought Greg. _Unless I go first, we’re going nowhere._ Sometimes Greg Lestrade knew what he really wanted and he just went for it. Now was one of these times. He took a deep breath. “So, what’s a nice guy like you doin’ in a place like this?” he asked with a warm smile, and Mycroft’s awkwardness vanished in a splutter of laughter. “This is the only two star restaurant I frequent,” he answered when he’d stopped laughing. “How did you—” but the bartender was back.  
“Good evening, Mr. Holmes!” he exclaimed, warmly. “May I get you a drink?”  
“Good evening to you, David,” replied Mycroft suavely, “and yes, please, but do give me a moment if you would, I’m just deliberating….” he scanned the optics behind the bar, considering.  
“Of course…” The bartender turned to Greg. “And you, sir, would you like another G &T?…Was the Fevertree tonic to your liking?”  
“Er, yeah! It was great,” said Greg, quickly finishing the dregs of his drink. “Thanks for the tip!” He turned to Mycroft. “So what are you having then?” he asked eagerly.  
Mycroft had been watching Greg swallow the last of his drink and had come to a quick decision suddenly. “I think I quite like the look of yours,” Mycroft replied. “I haven't had a G&T for…quite some time,” he turned his attention to the expectantly waiting bartender. “I’ll have the same please, David, and with the Fevertree too…thank you.” David got to work and Mycroft turned back to Greg and smiled.  
“Good day at the office then?” asked Greg cheerfully, and Mycroft made a soft sound of amusement. “You could say that, yes…” he said. “I had a very satisfactory result in soothing tensions between two…unhappy factions, let’s say.”  
Greg smiled. He knew not to ask, really, but he wanted to get their conversational juices flowing. However, no sooner had the bartender made the drinks and served them, the maitre’d was back. “Your table is ready, gentlemen,” he said.  
“Well. Cheers!” said Greg quickly to Mycroft, proffering his glass. Mycroft lifted up his own and clinked it. _“Cheers,”_ he said, rather amused. This was not behaviour that Mycroft normally indulged in, but quite suddenly he felt freed from all the usual obligations of his customary behaviour. He found that right now, he didn’t actually care about what was normal for him and what was not. 

 

Their table was one of Mycroft’s favourites, tucked away from the main restaurant area and screened lightly on one side by more of the strikingly verdant green and leafy plants in tall black enamelled pots. Constantine’s was unusual in that some of its tablecloths were a vibrant white, and those tables bore glossy ceramic candlesticks and bright white candles to match, but some - like the one on this table - were instead a deep, soft cream; matched by elegant, carved wooden candleholders painted a deeper cream colour, and set off beautifully by the burnished gold candles that they contained.  
Greg really liked this table too, as it went. “So,” said Greg, smiling, after they’d sat down. “The note. I was really surprised that you—”  
A waitress appeared at their table. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she murmured pleasantly, politely handing them the menus and the wine list. She went through the specials on the tiny, ornate, hand-held blackboard, and then left them in peace to make their choices.  
“That I what?…You were saying?” Mycroft chased, once she was out of earshot.  
“That you wanted to…you know…meet me. For dinner,” said Greg. He looked like he still couldn't believe his luck.  
“Well. I think we both know why we are here,” Mycroft said steadily, thinking of what Greg had written. _I’ve seen you looking,_ he thought, staring into Greg’s eyes, feeling his heartbeat increase involuntarily; just a fraction.  
Greg smiled, the lines on his face deepening attractively. His eyes were very warm. “Well. I suppose we do,” he agreed. The smile never left his face. He looked down at the thick cream-coloured menu before him, still smiling. “Are we going for starters as well, then, or straight to the main?” he asked, running a finger down the list of dishes as he scanned them; rather charmingly, Mycroft thought. “When I came with Zac we had the duck for starters,” Greg continued, musingly, “but it was so fantastic I wished I’d ‘ad it as my main course…” but Mycroft’s attention had caught unpleasantly on the male name in that sentence.  
“Zac?” he asked innocently, as if just merely vaguely interested and not looking up from his menu.  
But Greg looked up. “He’s in the Fraud Squad,” Greg clarified. “He’s a really good friend of mine. Knows Mike Stamf—“ he stopped. “Do you know Mike Stamford?”  
_Ah,_ thought Mycroft. “I don’t, no,” he said calmly, still perusing his menu, as if the thought of Gregory having dinner with someone else here didn’t bother him at all. ‘Well, of course he’s been here before, you fool,’ Mycroft scolded himself tartly, looking down at the menu. ‘How else would he know about the damn place otherwise?’  
“Oh, well, he…ah…he knows Sherlock and he’s an old friend of John’s. That’s how I—er, never mind.” Greg had picked up on Mycroft’s thoughts. “Yeah, well, anyway, we smashed a massive case together,” he explained. “A whole load of us came here to celebrate after - Zac’s brother was the maitre’d at the time. It was a while ago; it was that case where Sherlock worked out that the chihuahua breeder bloke…the one from the Isle of Dogs that we were questioning about those dodgy goings on at the warehouse unit?…” Greg paused. He raised his eyebrows and gestured with his hand as if to say, _do you remember this one?_ Mycroft nodded quickly to indicate he was following the story and that Greg should continue. So Greg did. “Yeah, well, anyway, Sherlock realised that the bloke was _also_ \- pretty ironic, really - the Catford cat burglar. He’d been sleeping on the ex-girlfriend’s sofa all week…Sherlock got that from the dog hairs left on her cushions, do you remember?”  
Mycroft remembered it well and said so. Sherlock had said something about it being an eight to him at the time.

They each examined the menus briefly and then discussed what they liked the look of. “What do we fancy then?” asked Greg with a grin, and as Mycroft announced his choice and began to describe the intricacies of Constantine’s extraordinary prawn and small seafood cocktail, Greg sipped his drink and watched him and thought, ‘I fancy _you._  That’s what I fancy.’ 

Over the first course, and during the brief wait between that and their main courses, they discussed so many obscure things that Mycroft was in turn intrigued, delighted, amused and surprised. Gregory was a superb dinner companion, he thought. He was entertaining, but thoughtful. He was sharp and intelligent, had plenty of opinions, but he was also a good listener and he asked Mycroft many things to get him to talk about himself. Mycroft, normally so reticent to discuss anything personal, had already warmed to Gregory’s gregarious manner during the Christmas drinks at Baker Street where they had finally met properly, but this evening he found himself not just warming but heating up; secretly hanging onto Gregory’s every word. ‘I haven't had an evening like this for an _age,’_ he thought, sipping his wine.

Greg, in his turn, loved making his friends laugh. He would work out their sense of humour quite quickly and then simply key into it. Sometimes it took a while, but it hadn't with Mycroft. Mycroft he had found as easy as pie. With Mycroft, Greg had soon realised, he just needed to be himself. 

 

The wine flowed and the food was, as ever at Constantine’s, fantastic. Their conversation was natural and easy, and towards the end of the main course, Greg’s began to grow gradually what could only be described as slightly more… _charged._

“I’m really enjoying this. Being out with you.” Greg said suddenly, on impulse, halfway through a conversation about their favourite dishes. “I wish we’d done this before now.” He swiped the last pieces of duck and remaining morsels of crisp potato through the dark sweet jus on his plate, and brought the forkful to his mouth, watching Mycroft carefully as he did it for his reaction to the words.  
‘How refreshing,’ Mycroft thought. Honesty _and_ flirtation. He was warming up to those two particular facets of Gregory Lestrade’s personality nicely. “As am I, with you,” he said sincerely in reply. “And I agree. I wish we’d done it sooner too.”  
Greg looked down quickly, a strange expression flashing across his face, as if he were embarrassed, and put his knife and fork together neatly. He pushed them slightly to the left so they lay centrally, straight on his plate, at half past twelve. He raised his gaze back to Mycroft. “Well…I s’pose we’re doing it now, eh?” he said slowly. His dark eyes smouldered and his words were laden with suggestion. Hence the odd look on Greg’s face a moment before, realised Mycroft suddenly. He hadn’t been embarrassed at all - he’d just immediately thought of that little innuendo and had been wondering whether to say it or not. Mycroft also saw, in an instant, that Greg’s deciding to say it and him responding positively now would be the start of something else.

Mycroft Holmes was fully versed on all the delicate nuances of human flirting behaviour, and he knew how to utilise them, if he wanted to. It was just that he hadn’t wanted to in such a very long time indeed. However, he wanted to now. He really wanted to now. He warmed up his rusty flirting muscles with a twitch of his eyebrow and a slight lift to the side of his mouth. Then he really went for it. “We are _indeed,”_ he said, practically purring the words, and allowing his the corner of his mouth to lift even further as he did so.  
Greg did something with his own mouth then; not quite a grin, not quite a smirk, not quite a licking of his lips, but coupled with those deep brown, serious and sultry eyes of his it was a masterclass in the art of flirtation via a single, complex facial expression. Greg’s face said, “Oh, I think I _really_ like you.” The whole thing simply rocked Mycroft’s world. He felt all at once, dizzy with desire, and with a deep, delicious clench of his stomach, found he was suddenly - embarrassingly - rather hot under the collar. Greg’s hand, which had been resting on the tablecloth, slid over and his fingers just touched Mycroft’s where they rested on the base of his wine glass. Mycroft had a hard time keeping his composure at that, but he maintained it and merely smiled in an encouraging way. Greg took this as the ‘yes’ that it was and moved his fingers up to lightly cover Mycroft’s. Now they were holding the base of the glass together, but somehow it didn't feel foolish. To Mycroft it was just… _charming._ He loved Gregory’s tentative gesture. He released the glass and took his hand away from it, taking Gregory’s fingers with him. On the tablecloth, unheeded by glassware, they lightly held hands like a couple of love-struck teenagers. Greg grinned at him and Mycroft found himself actually grinning back. 

Just then, there was a sharp movement on the table next to them that Greg noticed out of the corner of his eye, and then the man at the table leaned in to the woman he was with and Greg distinctly heard the muttered words, “…just didn’t think we’d be sharing the place with a couple of queers...”  
Greg didn’t move. Much. He widened his eyes at Mycroft and raised his eyebrows. He was making sure Mycroft had heard the unpleasant remark. He didn’t remove his hand from Mycroft’s and he didn’t throw his weight around. He just turned his head and kept his gaze completely fixed on the man in the blue shirt until he became uncomfortably aware of it. The man quickly became rather restless. It was obvious he now knew that Greg was staring at him, and he fidgeted in his seat, scratching his head vigorously and staring down at his half-full plate, pushing his food around without eating. Greg simply kept calmly staring over, and Mycroft - who knew the value of a bit of well-managed awkward silence to get exactly what he wanted - simply waited equally calmly to see what he would do. 

Greg and Mycroft were not in the least bit uncomfortable with the present situation, but the occupants of the other table certainly were. After a few more slowly passing moments, Greg inclined his body slightly towards the other man and called over softly, “ ‘Scuse me, mate?” He sounded fairly friendly and he didn’t raise his voice. His tone sounded for all the world like he might be about to ask the chap if he had the time, by any chance?   
The man in blue glanced awkwardly over at them. “Me?” he said. The woman he was with appeared suddenly horrified and pointedly looked away from her companion to disassociate herself from the situation.   
“Yeah, you,” replied Greg, easily. He smiled.  “We don’t know each other, do we?”  
“N—er, no...” the man stuttered.  
Greg grinned. “Let’s keep it that way then…shall we?” he suggested. He was smiling but his gaze was very clear and direct. His gaze said what his words didn’t.   
“Er…right, ok…yeah, sorry,” the man said hurriedly and turned back to the woman he was with, who was clearly embarrassed and possibly furious. She had put her knife and fork aside, though her meal was also only half-finished, and she appeared to be looking around for a waiter. When one came over, she murmured something to him and before Mycroft knew it, she was asking for the bill. Greg turned his full attention back to Mycroft and smiled. “Now, where were we?” he asked, pleasantly.   
Mycroft liked the smooth and unshowy way that Greg had dealt with that situation. He liked it very much. Which was a bit of an understatement, rather. The truth was he was actually astonished to discover how it made him feel. He stroked his thumb over one of Greg’s knuckles. “I believe you had been just about to tell me more about the black label Iberian ham that you sampled on your holiday…?” he said placidly, his stomach swirling in an interesting way.   
Greg sat up and barked with laughter. _“Was I?”_ he asked. “Bloody hell, what am I telling you about _that_ again for? No, let me tell you about this amazing secluded beach I found by mistake one day instead...” and then he proceeded to relay an anecdote so full of humorous descriptions and the scenery and smells and sights of the island of Majorca, and so well away from the beaten tourist track, that Mycroft longed to go there more than he ever thought he would believe possible. “It sounds very beautiful,” he said, genuinely enchanted.   
“Oh, hang on, you ‘aven’t heard the best bit yet...” warned Greg, and then he grinned and revealed the punch line. “...It turns out it was only a bloody nudist beach!”   
Mycroft burst out laughing; a real and genuine laugh which was surprised out of him like a startled rabbit out of a hat. Greg grinned, pleased with his little bit of story-telling magic. His thumb pressed down on the back of Mycroft’s index finger and slid up the back of his hand. His fingers were broad and warm in Mycroft’s. “Wanna come back to mine for some cheap scotch after?” he said, his dark eyes sparkling.   
Mycroft looked at him and melted. “Yes,” he said, “I’d like to,” before he even knew he was going to say it.   
“Oh good, then that means I can show you _all_ my holiday slides,” added Greg, sitting back in his chair and letting go of Mycroft’s hand with pretended relief, as if that had been his true incentive all along. Mycroft barked with laughter again. “Only your slides, Gregory?” he managed to ask daringly, recovering himself. Greg lifted an eyebrow. He liked where this was going. “Maybe some cine films an’ all...if yer lucky...” he added.  
‘Did the man ever stop flirting?’ thought Mycroft, delighted. He thought he might be grinning again, but even knowing that, he didn't feel inclined to stop. This was _wonderful._

 

The waitress came and cleared their plates, and then presented them with the dessert menu. Both of them felt inclined to express their enjoyment of the meal, which Mycroft felt had been absolutely exquisite - even by Constantine’s high standards. Maybe it was also something to do with the company. The company caught Mycroft’s eye. “So. Pud?” he asked, cheerfully, and then, “Have you got a sweet tooth, Mycroft?”  
Mycroft smiled. _Did he have a sweet tooth? Would the Prime Minister of Papua New Guinea like his hand-written invitation to visit Downing Street in the summer? Well,_ yes, of course, _was the answer to both._ Mycroft didn’t need to look at the menu. He’d already decided. “The creme brûlée here is to die for. Really,” he said, with a smile. Gregory perused the dessert menu thoughtfully. He blew out his cheeks and frowned a little. “Well…d’you know, I normally would, but I’m so stuffed after that duck,” he said. “Could I just…‘ave a little taste of yours?” Sharing food in a restaurant was not something Mycroft would ever dream of doing…at least, it was not something he had ever _done._ But maybe now was the time to break all the rules. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Only not too much…It’s my favourite.” He lifted an eyebrow and smiled.  
Greg openly smirked. “Ok. You give me what you think you can spare…” he said, brown eyes dancing, making Mycroft’s insides swirl again. _This man will be the death of me,_ Mycroft thought, as Greg reached for his hand again across the table. 

The creme brûlée tasted the best it had ever tasted. Even better after watching Gregory Lestrade lick some of it from a spoon right in front of him. _He’s heavenly,_ thought Mycroft, looking down, delving further into his pudding, feeling Greg’s eyes on him all the time.  
_He’s so fucking hot it’s obscene,_ thought Greg, watching Mycroft crack the caramel surface delicately, and his long, pale fingers on the silver spoon as he removed individual shards of caramel and thin slivers of creme brûlée from the dish, one at a time.

~~~~

When they asked for the bill, Mycroft said quickly, “Let me get this, you get the next one,” and Greg didn’t argue with him. “Ok, sure, if you want…thanks,” was all he said. Which only delighted Mycroft further; the complicit agreement that there would _be_ a next time, then. 

When Greg stood up and slipped his suit jacket on, he never took his eyes from Mycroft. Mycroft tried not to notice as he tucked his gold card back into his wallet, but he glowed under Greg's gaze. Greg noticed _that,_ alright, and he licked his lips. “I’ll get the taxi,” he said and he went to the bar to order one.


	3. Amber, Chocolate and Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be February but phew...is it just me or is it getting hot in here? ;)

The interior of the taxi cab on the way home quite quickly became a dark, mobile cavern of lust - or at least, the back seat did - because as soon as Mycroft got into the cab and slid across the leather back seat to sit behind the driver, Greg got in after him and slid confidently across the back seat too to sit right next to him. Greg leaned forward to give the driver his address and as the cab pulled away, they both almost immediately discovered that where Greg had chosen to sit would have a profound effect on the experience of the journey; what with Mycroft’s lower thigh and knee leaning into Greg’s every time they turned right, and Greg’s leaning into Mycroft’s every time they turned left, the frequent light touching of their knees and thighs with the movement of the car became a form of sweet and oft-repeated torture. Mycroft had never before considered the inordinate number of turns a vehicle might make when travelling in London until this evening. Eventually, somewhere along the Chelsea Bridge Road, Mycroft could bear it no longer and brought his hand up to rest seemingly innocently on his left knee - the knee that was next to Greg’s - almost at the point of their contact, and immediately before the next left turn, in a shameless attempt to encourage Greg to take his hand when they did so. And when they _did_ , Greg _did_ do so; _wonderfully._

On the left turn, as their knees pressed together once again with the movement of the cab, Greg found Mycroft’s fingers there instead of the bony prominences of his knee. And so Mycroft's plan worked perfectly. Greg reached down and took hold of the long, elegant fingers, first gently interlacing them with the back of his own, and then lifting them and bringing Mycroft’s hand over to his own knee where he then enfolded Mycroft’s hand in his own in a tight, warm clasp; in the dark secrecy of the cab holding it much more fully than he had at the table in the restaurant.

He squeezed Mycroft’s hand briefly and then brought their clasped hands across his lap slightly, higher up onto his mid thigh, so that they could relax their arms comfortably as they rode along. Against his exposed wrist, Mycroft could feel the heat of Greg’s thigh through the fabric of his trousers.  _‘God in Heaven,’_ thought Mycroft, helpless in the face of such easily given affection. Not to mention the outright temptation. Mycroft swallowed hard, feeling the heat building in his face. Thank God it _was_ so dark in the back of the cab because _that_ had definitely made his ears go pink.  
“Ok with this?” asked Greg astutely, noticing something going on with Mycroft.  
Mycroft nodded briefly. “After being so amenable to such a public display across the table in the restaurant, one should certainly hope so,” he said seriously, but he was trying not to smile.  
Greg blew out some air with a soft appreciative noise. “Oh, I love the way you talk, Mycroft,” he said quickly and sincerely, his voice low and conspiratorial, squeezing Mycroft’s fingers lightly again in his warm hand. Internal sparks had formed from his words and then, at the squeeze of his hand, flew from Greg’s firm touch up Mycroft’s arm and buried themselves in his heart.

Not for the first time this evening, Mycroft found himself rendered incapable of speech and he simply couldn’t provide a reply to that statement. Which didn’t matter though, of course, because Greg wasn’t expecting one anyway.

 

The rest of the ride was a blur of traffic, the cab radio set to some mostly inoffensive popular music station, their clasped hands warm and their thighs lightly pressed together side by side on the black leather seat of the cab; these last two details being very high on the list of sensory awareness in both their minds. Then, in a further interesting development, Greg suddenly began to stroke his thumb slowly over Mycroft’s. He did it again and again, the rhythmic sensation somehow both soothing in its easy reassuring familiarity but, each time Greg did it, also incendiary in its blazing newness. On the outside, Mycroft Holmes was all suave and calm collected control, but internally he was becoming a slightly frazzled and lust-addled mess. This was all so _new._ He could hardly think straight at the dizzying turn of events. _What was this, now?_ he thought. Furtive, discrete glances across a crowded room and what had appeared to be a brief, innocuous chat at Baker Street, had somehow turned to anonymous letters, and from that to a very surprising and wonderful dinner and now...a simmering anticipation of what might be to come over a lust-filled cab ride across the darkened city. _What next?_ Mycroft wondered helplessly, still rather incredulous. He hadn’t felt what he was feeling now since he was in his first term at university...and that _really_ was rather a long time ago, he mused.

The roads became more and more residential until they eventually turned down a quiet side street of elegant, terraced Victorian houses; all decorative red brickwork with high bay windows and bevelled sills of pale stone. There were large, mature London plane trees dotted periodically in gaps in the paving slabs on both sides of the street, their seed pods dangling like decorative baubles from the bare branches. Greg directed the driver of the taxi and he came to a smooth stop halfway down the street, outside number 29. A low brick wall separated the front garden from the pavement, and the wall was clearly the same vintage as the house; constructed of the same dusky red and aged bricks. There were skeletal tufts of small-leafed hardy plants growing in various cracks and fissures in the old mortar, and in clumps around its base.

The driver stopped the engine and turned the internal lights on, and as he announced the charge, Greg dropped Mycroft’s hand quickly to delve into his pocket for his wallet. He leant forward to pay the driver. “Thanks, mate! Keep the change!” Greg said to him cheerfully, handing him a note and then sliding across and opening his door as soon as the cabbie had released the door lock.  
“Much obliged, thanks, gents - have a nice evenin’!” the driver replied as Greg got out, stowing his fare and rather pleased with his generous tip. Mycroft made to follow Greg out from his side of the car onto the pavement while Greg held the door open for him, his left hand missing Gregory’s warm touch already. “Good evening, then,” Mycroft said pleasantly to the driver, as he stepped out onto the pavement, drunk on Gregory Lestrade and feeling quite unlike his usual reserved self. Of course the driver had no idea of any of this. “An’ you, guv!” he responded easily, checking his phone and re-setting the meter.  
Glancing over at Greg’s house, Mycroft was somewhat amused to observe the coincidence that the garden path was tiled in exactly the same black and white chequered pattern as the floor at Constantine’s, though on a very much smaller scale and certainly not the same Italian marble. 

Greg slammed the car door shut behind him and as the cab pulled away, Mycroft turned around to look at him standing on the pavement. They were close to a street lamp but not directly under it, and the vapour of their breath plumed out cleanly into the chill air. Greg smiled. “So…here we are then,” he said again, deliberately, and Mycroft laughed right on cue. “So…what’s a nice fellow like you doing in a place like this?” he quipped back immediately, and had the immense satisfaction of it now being Greg - instead of himself, for a change - who burst out with an unexpected peal of laughter.  
Instinctively, on impulse, Greg broached the gap between them and reached for Mycroft’s hand again, squeezing it and then keeping hold as he leant forward quickly to kiss Mycroft lightly on the cheek. His lips were soft, the brief scent of his aftershave dark and woody. Mycroft was so taken aback that he had not seen that coming at all. 'What’s wrong with me,' he thought, looking at Greg with surprise, feeling Greg’s fingers once more laced between his own, ‘that I didn’t see that coming? Is this what emotional involvement does? Totally annihilates one’s senses?’  
But Greg had thought nothing at all of his impulsive swooping kiss and was behaving perfectly normally. He grinned, delighted, at Mycroft. “You’re totally wasted in the British Government...” he remarked, still grinning, squeezing Mycroft’s fingers again.  
Mycroft had managed to gather his wits enough to answer, and he squeezed lightly back as he did so. “Am I indeed?” he asked, intrigued. “And where should I be?”  
_Upstairs in my bedroom, mate,_ the filthy part of Greg’s mind responded immediately, but he said quickly, “On the stage - I can see you as the most poised, immaculately dressed, straight faced and haughty stand-up comedian I’ve ever seen. Your cutting wit would slay them dead!”  
Now Mycroft gave a abrupt snort of laughter. “I can honestly say I have really never considered it as a career option,” he said, tipping his head in bemusement, stroking Greg’s hand with his thumb experimentally, just like Greg had in the taxi.  
“Maybe you should,” said Greg. “Just for fun. I go to the Apollo sometimes, they do a stand up night, I’ll take you.” He started to smile then he added hastily, “To _watch_ , I mean, not to actually go up there on the stage…” he paused, then said, “…but if yer did, then God forbid anyone who tried to heckle you! You could just look down your nose at them silently with those incredible laser beam eyes of yours and they’d shrivel up at yer feet. _Christ!”_ He gave a mock shiver of fear at the thought of it, the comical boyishness of the gesture making Mycroft’s heart leap unexpectedly. “Oh, well, come on,” Greg continued, turning to go up his garden path, “let’s go in…I’ve promised you cheap scotch, ‘aven’t I?!” He led the way up the path, getting his keys out from his jacket pocket as he went and not letting go of Mycroft’s hand as he dug around for them. Mycroft was still slightly surprised by the comedian comment, almost dazed, even - _the very idea_ \- but, he thought, on another completely different track, he was at the same time marvelling over how often Gregory had managed to surprise him over and over again this evening. He felt taken out of himself, like he had earlier in the restaurant; once again released from having to be the person that he always had to be. It was so exhilarating, this freedom. 

Greg let go of Mycroft’s hand to open the door and as he pushed it fully open and withdrew the key, he stepped inside and said over his shoulder, “Er, excuse the mess, I...er...didn’t plan on...” It was as if he suddenly remembered what state he’d left it in. “When I asked you back, I just thought...” He stopped in the hallway and gestured to an irregularly-shaped wooden board set high up on the wall, lined with assorted wobbly, handmade metal coat hooks, both large and small. It looked like a flat plank cut from extremely long piece of silvery driftwood. “There’s a—if you wanna take your coat off..or your jacket...” he said, walking on past it straight down the short corridor to where Mycroft could see the kitchen at the end, via the low level lights under the wall cabinets that had been left on. Greg threw out an arm to indicate an open door on the left side of the corridor as he passed it. “The lounge is in there,” he said, stopping to reach briefly round the door frame of the room to switch the light on, and then continuing on to the kitchen. “Make yourself at home! I’ll get us that scotch,” he said as he went.

As Mycroft took his coat off, he tried not to deduce but some things were impossible not to see. There were an assortment of other items of clothing on the coat rack, including an elderly and battered waxed Barbour jacket, which looked incredibly comfortable. Surely too big for Greg and very well worn, so must have belonged to a relation….vintage from the age of it, but not ancient, so… _his father’s_ , Mycroft surmised. But why did Greg have it? Perhaps a question for another day, then, he thought. Mycroft hung his coat next to it, and as he did so, Gregory called out suddenly from the kitchen,“Highland Park, Laphroaig or Glenfarclas?”  
Mycroft smiled. “I thought you said cheap scotch…?” he replied loudly, smoothing his coat sleeves down automatically and then unknotting his scarf. Greg laughed from the other room. “Well, there’s a dodgy offy round the corner if you fancy some Famous Grouse?” he suggested cheerfully, and Mycroft heard him opening and shutting cabinet doors. Mycroft slipped his scarf off to loop neatly across the top of his coat and walked towards the kitchen as he answered. “No, no, the Glenfarclas is perfect,” he said. “May I ask which blend?”  
Greg was bending down to the freezer, searching for ice, just as Mycroft walked into the kitchen and so Mycroft was presented with a surprising and wonderful view of his rear. Not only that, but he had taken off his outer jacket and suit jacket and slung both carelessly over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. As he straightened up, ice cube tray in hand, Mycroft delighted at the sight of his back and broad shoulders encased in his crisp, light-coloured shirt. He turned around and grinned, disarming Mycroft completely. “You may ask,” he said, mock seriously. “It’s their 15-year-old Speyside single malt. It’s very good,” he held out the half-full ice cube tray. “Ice?’ he asked, lifting his eyebrows.  
“Not for me, thank you, just with a little water, please,” said Mycroft. Greg put the ice cube tray back undiminished, shut the freezer door as he straightened up and turned to face Mycroft. He hadn't switched on the bright overhead light, and the low-level under-cabinet lighting was soft and pleasant. He looked at Mycroft and Mycroft looked at him.

Greg’s kitchen was pretty tiny and Mycroft was not. He was very big in the small room. Greg noticed. He couldn’t _not._ He bit his lip a little at the thought, looking Mycroft over, and Mycroft knew he didn’t even realise he was doing it. Very telling. And rather exciting. “What are you thinking?” Mycroft asked suddenly, just to see if he would tell the truth. What would he say? But Greg was unabashed. He smiled easily as he brought his eyes back to Mycroft’s and said, “I was just thinking that you’re the only person I know who wears a watch on a chain.”  
Mycroft smiled back, delighted. He was quite sure Greg had been thinking something a little more personal than that, but he’d managed to sidestep the question easily. How very thrilling this all was, he thought. It was like a game. And this evening, he had realised that he could play this game very well, in fact.  
_“Ye-es,"_ replied Mycroft slowly, in an amused but regretful tone. “It seems to be a fading trend, somewhat. Perhaps I should endeavour to reintroduce it.”  
“Nah, don't do that,” said Greg dismissively, turning and reaching up into the open kitchen cabinet for the bottle of Glenfarclas. “I like it that you're the only one who wears one.” He turned his back briefly to open the bottle and then pour into the waiting glasses. Mycroft leant back against the opposite kitchen counter by the door, watching him do it, enamoured with everything about the man. Greg finished pouring the measures of whisky; recapped the bottle and then added water from a green glass jug in the fridge before handing Mycroft his drink.  
“Thank you, Gregory,” said Mycroft warmly as he took it.  
Greg lifted his own. “You’re welcome… _cheers!”_ He stepped forward and clinked his glass with Mycroft’s. Mycroft smiled. _“Cheers!”_ he said again, as he had in Constantine’s, once more feeling amused by the strangeness of his use of the word and the action. They sipped their drinks, enjoying the scent and the full, complex taste; heather and honey and gently smoky ripe, dark fruit. Greg leaned back against the counter and closed his eyes briefly in appreciation as he swallowed. “Ooh, thats good,” he remarked quietly with evident satisfaction. Mycroft hadn't needed to see that expression on his face and hear him murmur those words to know it was his favourite - he had already known by the amount left in the bottle, and its position on the shelf - but for other, more personal reasons, it was absolutely wonderful to behold both nonetheless. He didn’t say a word to himself about what he was doing, but he filed them away carefully for private quiet contemplation later.  
Greg took another sip and remembered his manners. “Er, shall we go and sit down?” he suggested. He gestured with his glass towards the sitting room next door. “An’ listen, you can call me Greg...if you want…”  
Mycroft hesitated, he didn’t move. “I don’t know if I do, I rather like the sound of your full name,” he said. “I’m all for full names. Do you mind very much if I call you Gregory?”  
Now Greg hesitated. He made a _‘dunno’_ sort of face. “Dunno,” he said. He seemed surprised. “I don’t _mind_ exactly…it’s my name, isn’t it? It’s just…well, no one usually…everyone just calls me Greg.”  
“I see. But…if you don’t actively dislike being called ‘Gregory’, then may I call you that?” Mycroft seemed unusually unsure of himself.  
Greg shrugged and smiled at the same time. “Go right ahead!” he said, somewhat bemused by the asking of permission. But Mycroft was more than happy with that answer. “I shall call you Gregory then,” he said. “And I’m quite happy here, for the moment, if you are?”  
“Whatever you like,” said Greg, amiably. “Feels quite nice to stand up after bein' sat down all night.” They smiled at each other and both took a sip of their whisky. It was obvious that Greg had suggested they move to the sitting room for the sake of the comfortable seats, but really, neither of them actually wanted to. Not only because, as Greg had said, they had been seated all evening, but also because standing here was good; it was good physically, true, but being near each other like this, admiring each other in the close confines of this small room was…even more so. Mycroft had noted without meaning to when he passed the sitting room, that Greg’s armchairs were rather far apart, and the tiny two-seater sofa that he had in there had looked much too much of a squeeze for both of them to relax on. Especially with the full laundry basket that was currently on it. In Greg’s small and cosy kitchen however, Mycroft could feel the energy and chemistry between them like the push of heat and the drift of sparks close to a bonfire. From the deep look in Gregory’s beautiful brown eyes, he knew he could feel it too.

Greg leaned back against his kitchen counter again, put his glass down and loosened his tie. He undid his top button but left the tie on. Mycroft thought his mouth might water. Just looking at him made Mycroft want to loosen his own tie. As a distraction, he swirled the last of the thick amber liquid gently in his glass and watched it circle lazily around.  
“So what were you lookin’ at, at the party, then? said Greg, suddenly, thinking of his note. He lifted his own nearly empty glass again and drank, watching Mycroft as carefully as Mycroft had watched him.  
_How to answer that,_ wondered Mycroft. A myriad fascinating details was the truth, but perhaps start with the first thing that had caught his attention. “Someone made Sherlock laugh, quite uproariously,” Mycroft replied truthfully. “I was…very surprised to hear it. He doesn't often laugh like—well…I was speaking to John at the time, and he is the only person who I know who can do that, so I turned around to look and see who it was and I saw you standing there. You looked…you looked quite _interesting_ …”  
Greg snorted. “Flippin’ ‘ell, only _‘quite interestin’'?_ Is that all I get?” asked Greg, lowering his glass, pretending to be quite dismayed. Mycroft smiled wryly. He thought he’d been extremely honest already. As much as he realised that Greg was teasing him here, he also realised he was going to have to _really_ leave his emotional comfort zone if this were to progress. This concept was also very new to him. He swallowed the last of his delicious scotch in one burning gulp. _Dutch courage,_ he thought, and put his glass down on the worktop, leaning back against it with both palms hooked over the edge. He gripped it slightly with both hands. “What I _should_ have said then, was that I found you interesting. Immediately. I was…. immediately _very interested in you._ Because of it. In getting to know you.” He didn’t even sound like himself. To his great surprise, he found it actually rather liberating to be so completely honest.   
Greg turned his beaming smile full on Mycroft. “Well,” he said, still with that teasing tone, “why didn’t you just say _that_ , then? Why didn’t you just say so?”  
There was a flirtatious challenge in Gregory’s dark eyes. He was seeing how far he could go. _Or, Hell, perhaps not,_ thought Mycroft with a sharp spark of desire, _perhaps he’s like this all the time._  
Mycroft could feel himself grow warm again. In his face and…elsewhere. People did not tell Mycroft Holmes to _’say_ that _then.’_ They did not generally tell Mycroft Holmes what to do  _at all._ Not if they knew what was good for them. But Gregory Lestrade didn't know about that and Mycroft found himself realising that Gregory being the sort of person he was, even if he did know, he wouldn't let that minor point bother him. How very _liberating_ indeed.  
Mycroft swallowed. “I still—I still _am_ very interested in you, and in getting to know you…” he said, like it was a confession.  
“Oh, this gets better and better,” purred Greg in a roguish voice and downed his own drink. “More?” he offered, lifting his empty glass. Mycroft nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. “Please,” he murmured after a moment.

It was quite warm in Gregory’s kitchen and Mycroft had a lot of layers on. He also knew he didn’t look his best when he got too hot. He passed Greg his empty glass and then said, to explain, “I think if you’ll excuse me, I must take my suit jacket off too. It’s rather warm in here.”

The Holmes men had a knack of dressing and undressing that appeared as if they had been taught to do it as an elegant coordination of definite movements, rather than just as a necessary daily action. Mycroft drew his suit jacket off slowly as Greg stood still, holding Mycroft’s empty glass, and simply watched him. He made no pretence that he wasn’t enjoying every moment as Mycroft manoeuvred his long, lean body gracefully out of the garment, sliding it down off first one arm and then the other, and only when he’d completely removed it and draped the jacket over one forearm to brush the creases out, did Greg put the empty glass down, hold his hand out for the jacket and say, “Yours should go on a hanger. I’ll hang it up for yer.” It was clear that Mycroft’s jacket was without a doubt a little more upmarket than Marks and Sparks’s finest Autograph range, as Greg’s was.   
“There’s really no need,” said Mycroft, handing it over and knowing Greg was watching him as he looked down to straighten his cuffs. Then he looked up, caught Gregory’s eye and stroked his hair back lightly with one hand, appearing to be doing so in case the careful action of jacket removal had perhaps made it look mildly dishevelled. Of course it hadn’t; he was just preening himself for Greg and he knew it.

Greg however, had had almost enough of his favourite scotch by now to feel that it was time for some action. He said nothing, just held Mycroft’s suit jacket on one arm for a moment, looking at him with obvious pleasure, his eyes deliberately half-lidded and with _that_ smile playing on his face. His eyes roved southwards down Mycroft’s body and back up again in quite a leisurely fashion. He hadn’t said a single word yet, but the flirtation mode in Greg’s brain had powered up again and it was running at full strength.  
Even better, so was Mycroft’s - especially after seeing Greg look at him like that. “Do you see something you like?” he asked nonchalantly, and as he spoke, he gave a knowing smile, leaning back slightly against the kitchen counter in a blatant and unashamed come on. If that wasn’t enough, he kept the smile and lifted one eyebrow; Roger Moore style. 

Greg absolutely _loved_ it. He grinned and leaned back against his own kitchen counter momentarily. “Well, now…seein’ as yer askin’...I like _you_ …I do like a hot man in a well cut suit. And you’re _definitely_ that.” His voice was low and gravelly. His eyes lingered for a moment and then he hung Mycroft’s jacket on the back of the chair, quickly but carefully, and turned back to the worktop to pour them both a second scotch and then add some water.

Mycroft smiled as he was doing it all, his ears burning. He would have been able to tell without even looking at him properly what Greg had been liking just then from his stance and his posture, but it still didn’t hurt to hear it. Besides, he knew what he liked too and it was standing opposite him. He didn’t quite know if he could voice that brazen thought yet, however...and how _very_ unlike him it was to be unsure whether to voice an opinion or not - brazen or otherwise, he thought. And now he could feel his damned ears going pink again. “What else do you like?” he asked suddenly, as Greg passed him his second drink, desperate to know.  
“I like a man who’s taller than me,” said Greg instantly, sipping his own scotch.  
Mycroft’s smile widened. “And why would that be?” he asked, seeing that something was coming.  
Greg grinned and delivered, lowering his glass. “So I can shove ‘im up against the wall and show ‘im who’s boss.”  
Mycroft burst out laughing. He actually had to put his drink down before he spilt it. He thought he’d never laughed so much in one night in his entire life and certainly never while feeling so aroused at the same time. “Gregory, you’re so… _funny,”_ he said sincerely, when he could speak.“I…I like that. I didn't know I would, but…I _do._ I do really... _like_ it that you make me laugh so much.”  
“Well, I mean it. All of it. And I’m glad you like it because I aim to please,” said Greg, still grinning. He altered his stance, crossing his legs at the ankle and resting one hand on the worktop behind him. He sipped his scotch; his deep, dark eyes on Mycroft. _God, the man’s gorgeous,_ thought Mycroft. He felt that he had been rather remiss and it really was time for a bit of mutual appreciation. “You’re _very_ pleasing,” he said seriously, but with the smile still on his face. “And I think I should tell you that what _I_ like is standing right in front of me...” Mycroft sipped his own scotch slowly, using the glass to cover his mouth after he had spoken words he could hardly believe he was able to say. As he lowered the glass again, he licked his lips discretely, feeling the sweet burn of the whisky pass down his throat. He didn’t even realise he was doing it until it was done, but he had mirrored Greg’s stance in a postural echo, leaning back slightly against the worktop and crossing his legs at the ankle.

 _“Really?”_ said Greg, thrilled at the candid admission, and noticing the body language. “Should I let you get a closer look just to make sure?” he grinned again to show he was still teasing. He put his glass down on the worktop next to him and crossed the kitchen in three short steps, watching Mycroft as he came, the grin still on his face. He stopped in front of Mycroft, who straightened up automatically, uncrossing the supposedly relaxed ankles and standing at his full height, both feet nervously together. He didn’t quite know what Gregory was going to do - well, he thought he _did_ \- but he wasn't sure what _he_ should do now. _Where was a copy of DeBrett’s when one needed it?_ He put his own glass down on the worktop too. This situation needed his full attention, that was certain. He swallowed. “Oh, I’m sure,” he murmured, quietly slightly terrified now the moment seemed to have arrived.  
“Good,” said Greg. “So am I.” Greg moved in then, deliberately slowly, planting one polished, chocolate-brown Cheaney boot on either side of Mycroft’s shiny black Oxford brogues. “And I'm not jokin’ around now, I mean it,” he continued. “What else can I do to please you, Mycroft?” His voice was a dark, seductive whisper and Mycroft could barely breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N.B.: “DeBretts” refers to a well-known (at least in some circles, and most certainly in Mycroft’s), quite old and therefore old-fashioned book of social etiquette. It’s called DeBrett’s Guide to Etiquette and Modern Manners. 
> 
> The “Apollo” that Greg refers to is a theatre in Hammersmith, London (it’s actually called The Hammersmith Apollo Theatre, but is known as The Apollo) and they do indeed do a real stand-up night called “Live at the Apollo” which is televised on BBC 2 over here late on Friday nights. It’s absolutely great. I wish Greg would take _me,_ I’d love to go.


	4. Charcoal And Navy Go So Well Together

Greg moved in then, deliberately slowly, planting one polished, chocolate-brown Cheaney boot on either side of Mycroft’s shiny black Oxford brogues. “And I'm not joking around now, I mean it,” he continued. “What else can I do to please you, Mycroft?” His voice was a dark, seductive whisper and Mycroft could barely breathe.

He leaned in till their thighs just about touched, resting his left hand on the worktop behind Mycroft as he did so to take his weight - for now, at least - and he lifted his chin to reach. _He’s so bloody tall,_ Greg thought, desire building in his stomach like heat rising. “Well?” he repeated softly, teasingly.  
For the second time that evening, Mycroft couldn't think of a clever answer or a single thing to say. Greg could see Mycroft not knowing what to say and he found it both endearing and, quite frankly, hot as fuck. ‘Fancy bein’ able to render Mycroft Holmes speechless!’ he thought, delighted. And then, smack bang behind that, the filthy part of his mind piped up. _I’ll give_ ’im _‘quite interestin’ ’,_ it added, saucily. Greg grinned at the very idea. _Oh yeah,_ he thought. _Ohhh, yes please!_ “Hmmm...maybe I’m not quite close enough for you to tell?” he murmured softly, all full of flirty bravado. “Maybe I need to be...just a little bit closer...?”  


Mycroft really didn’t think he could _get_ much closer, but before he could voice that sparkling little gem of common sense, Greg leaned in and up and kissed him. Lightly, just a first press of his lips against Mycroft’s, closing his eyes to feel the sensation, and so Mycroft closed his own eyes - at first, simply experiencing the feel of Greg’s soft lips against his own, and then Greg’s warm hand stole up to the side of Mycroft’s face and held him there gently and Mycroft was just... _lost in it._ He brought his own hand tentatively up to touch Greg’s side and at the first contact with Greg’s body through the fabric of his shirt, Mycroft gasped - mid-kiss or not. This was... _overwhelming_...Gregory’s immediate proximity, his delicious, intoxicating scent, the feel of his body so very close, his feet tight against Mycroft’s, his legs beginning to press against Mycroft’s - where he was leaning further in and up to reach Mycroft’s mouth more firmly - and now, as he leant closer, Mycroft could begin to actually feel Gregory’s body taut against his own. While Mycroft was processing it all, on some other level, his hands were both beginning to get involved in their own early exploration of Gregory’s firm body and his broad back, and then, while Greg’s right hand was still on Mycroft’s face, the other left the worktop and found the bony curve of his hip.

It was too much. It was not enough.

Mycroft, who lived his life in complete control of everything, was losing it. How did ordinary people _live_ like this, he wondered, astounded at the feelings and sensations suddenly coursing through his body from nowhere. He gasped involuntarily as Greg changed his position slightly and his mouth left Mycroft’s to dip down and find his jawline and his neck. Mycroft tipped his head back and bit his own lip to hold in some undignified sort of unformed sound as he felt Gregory’s breath and then his hot, open mouth alight on his neck, and _then_ his lips and tongue warm and wet and delicate on his skin... _‘Saints preserve us!’_ he thought, ignited with a fire that was far from holy. Greg started slowly, but then went to town on the length of Mycroft’s long, pale neck, and Mycroft quickly became unable to repress the sound that was forming in his throat any longer. As Greg’s left hand swept up from Mycroft’s hip to his waist, and then slowly up his long back, the other that had been on his face slid round into his hair - Greg’s fingers curling delicately to caress the base of his skull - Mycroft experienced the surreal feeling of being encased by Gregory Lestrade and he could no longer stop himself. His mouth fell open and now he did actually moan softly. _“Oh, Gregory!”_ he mumbled. He was shocked at himself. _That_ had simply come from nowhere too. Greg released him for a moment. He drew back so he could see Mycroft’s face and paused, smiling delightedly and looking at Mycroft with something like wonder. He slid his hand that was currently in Mycroft’s hair back down the side of his neck and down to the top of his shoulder, turning his palm so the side of his thumb rested on the level of Mycroft’s collarbone through his shirt. He stroked it familiarly back and forth through the fabric.  
“Ooh, I like the way you said that,” growled Greg darkly, leaning back in to briefly kiss Mycroft’s neck again and he made a little sound of his own deep in his throat, like a pleased sort of purry rumble. Then he said, as if considering how much, “Actually, I _really_ liked it....I think I want to make you to say it again...”  
Mycroft was acutely embarrassed at his slip and grabbed for the offered handle of control.  
He turned his head so his mouth was directly next to Gregory’s ear, noting how wonderful his hair smelt. He leant closer, taking his time, and as he spoke, he allowed his breath to deliberately fill the pale, waiting whorl of Greg’s ear in three hot and powerfully whispered syllables. _“Gregory...”_ he breathed dramatically, making the word sound as suggestive as humanly possible.

It was then that it hit Gregory Lestrade, as he remembered Mycroft’s words from earlier; _I shall you call Gregory, then,_ he’d said, lightly, as if on a whim... and yes, _oh yes,_ Greg suddenly realised just how much he really wanted to be _Gregory_ to Mycroft. Especially now, like this...Oh, suddenly he really, _really_ did. _‘Fuck!’_ he thought, and he almost moaned himself. “Oof, say it again, just like that...” he demanded, and he flicked his tongue lightly up Mycroft’s neck and kissed it.

Mycroft nearly faltered at that but he also saw a perfect opportunity here to get his own back. He upped the ante on his Upper Crust accent and purred in a low, deep rumble, “Oh dear. Did you not hear me very well? Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough?” He paused for a long time, letting the sexual tension build incrementally; while Greg waited, unmoving, and then he growled, _“...Gregory...”_ in Greg’s ear, louder this time, and with just as much thick, dark intent in his voice as Greg had just utilised on him.  
“Mmm— _oh fffwoar—Jesus, Mycroft!”_ Greg mumbled, the string of words indistinct, spoken as they were through his slightly gritted teeth. Greg pressed himself more firmly against Mycroft. “If you’re going to be saying it like _that,_ Mycroft, I don’t stand a bloody chance!” he moaned. Mycroft replied by pressing his own body reciprocally harder against Greg’s. And for each of them there was absolutely no doubt about the other’s delight. Mycroft had deduced (correctly, of course) that Gregory Lestrade was very auditorily focused. Well, incidental deductions like that one really couldn’t be helped. One was a Holmes, after all.

But, Gregory was a Lestrade. And they did things their way...before Mycroft could get too smug, suddenly Greg shifted, lifting and moving his right thigh to insinuate it in between Mycroft’s, pushing his right foot down firmly between Mycroft’s ankles to settle it on the floor between Mycroft’s feet, shoving them both lightly aside with his own to be able to achieve this. He held Mycroft slightly more firmly as he did it, knowing he would be knocking him a little off balance. The tightened grip and the slightly rough treatment did amazing things to Mycroft, and now Greg was able to, standing with his right leg planted firmly between Mycroft’s, he pressed his right thigh deliberately further in and upwards slightly, and the space between their two bodies became almost non-existent; the pressure and the situation making Mycroft gasp in some air in a delightfully shocked way.  
“Tell me what else you liked about me at the party...‘quite interestin’' is just not good enough...” said Greg softly, pleased with Mycroft’s enthusiastic response to his leg, and he slid his hand firmly round and over Mycroft’s lean right hip.  
Mycroft breathed in again sharply. ‘Get a grip, man,’ he told himself, ‘for Heaven’s sake you’re gasping like a teenage—’ but then Gregory brought his mouth very close to Mycroft’s left ear, deliberately leaning himself across Mycroft’s body to do it. “What else?” he demanded gently, his wandering hand now sliding round towards the back of the prominent bony curve of Mycroft’s hipbone and down and round onto his arse.  


Despite his self-flagellation about all the teenage gasping, Mycroft nearly stopped breathing altogether at that. _“Gregory...”_ he murmured weakly.  
“OK, c’mon, tell me,” whispered Greg enticingly, “and then I’ll tell _you_ what I found interestin' about _you.”_  
Mycroft needed to hear that like he needed air. He had already found Greg to be so honest; there was no duplicity or secrecy about him. Not here and now, at least, not when he was with Mycroft, like this, at this intimate moment. The enormity of all this honesty was astounding to Mycroft, and though he remained the safe keeper of many state secrets - both large and small, desperately important or otherwise - suddenly he could not keep his own. They tumbled from his lips like a confession.  
Besides, he’d left his emotional comfort zone far, _far_ behind the moment that Greg had pressed him against the worktop. “I—I like the way you hold yourself, relaxed but ready for...something, _anything_...” he said haltingly. “You always look so...laid back but I think you can really move when you want to.” He paused and swallowed, Greg’s hand stroking encouragingly up and then down his spine. Greg smiled against Mycroft’s neck. “Yeah?” he whispered.

Mycroft swallowed again. “I like your...your hair, your eyes...” he continued. “You’re very... _attractive_ to look at...You...you were wearing the same navy suit at the party as you’re wearing tonight, I thought then that the colour really suited you...it so complements your skin and your hair...” Greg’s hand began to wander slowly down onto Mycroft’s arse as Mycroft spoke. He leaned even closer, tilting his head slightly to reach up towards Mycroft’s ear. “Go on,” he breathed as he passed Mycroft’s jawline, his mouth moving on upwards.  


Mycroft Holmes, who claimed to play only a minor role in the British Government, gasped and practically shivered at the sensation of this man’s hot breath on his skin, his hand on his hip, moving down lower on his behind. He made a tiny sound of surprise that this would be all it took to bring him down. He swallowed hard again. He had to try to regain _some_ composure, even if just for appearance’s sake, at least. “You're very forceful, I'm rather surprised,” he murmured, aiming for cool and suave.  
Greg gave a soft snort of laughter. “Don’t be. I’m about as vanilla as a four-year old’s ice-cream on Clacton beach,” he said softly. “But I really like you. And I’m pretty sure I’ve got this right and _you_ really like _me_...” before Mycroft could even answer, Greg altered his position and pressed his lower body full against Mycroft’s, to find Mycroft’s erection with his own. “Oh! Well, I definitely got _that_ right...” he purred, deliciously pleased with himself, and Mycroft felt him smile against his neck once more. Mycroft made some kind of strangulated inelegant sound and Greg suddenly pressed harder against him. With that, Mycroft could simply take all this teasing no longer and he brought his hands up fast to slide his long, pale fingers into Greg’s silver hair and turn his face towards his own, where he kissed him with a building hunger that had suddenly raged from nowhere. In retaliation, Greg’s right hand gave his arse a proper squeeze, his other hand coming up to the side of Mycroft’s face and then round to cup the back of his head. They kissed fiercely for a few moments, pushing against each other, seeking friction, the hand on his arse sliding once again up Mycroft’s back to pull him closer still, until Greg broke away and looked at Mycroft, breathing hard. “Oh Jesus, you’re somethin’ else...” he gasped. His eyes were sweet, dark pools to drown in, Mycroft thought. “As are _you_...” he managed after a breath.  


Greg went back for more, but their activities had moved them along the worktop a bit, and in his haste to snog Mycroft senseless, he misjudged the proximity of Mycroft’s half-full whisky glass to his backside. As Greg shoved Mycroft quickly back against the worktop, either his hand or Mycroft’s back (or a combination of both) caught the glass and jogged it. Instinctively, Greg grabbed for the spinning glass, but his quick action had the unfortunate effect of accidentally jogging it more, swilling the whisky inside it even more violently, and making some of it slop over the side in a small scale alcohol tsunami. Greg realised immediately what he’d done - a split second before Mycroft even moved in reaction from Greg's sudden movement and the noise of the glass. He jerked his behind away from the worktop and twisted round to look down and assess the damage. Greg, who was still holding the glass, whisky all over his fingers, stared in mute red-handed horror at the small puddle he had created on the worktop and - _worse!_ \- the large splash of it now adorning the seat of Mycroft’s immaculate charcoal grey trousers. The whisky on the worktop had meanwhile formed a little stream and now began to run joyfully towards the edge, and Greg looked frantically around for the nearest tea towel or a sponge before it got there and did any further damage. _“Shit!”_ he exclaimed, mortified, putting the glass down quickly further back from Mycroft and instantaneously finding the washing up sponge was the closest. He snatched it up and let go of Mycroft, veering away from him to perform the rescue operation. He quickly scooped up the little stream and wiped around the puddle, glancing down in dismay at Mycroft’s trousers. “Oh Jesus, Mycroft, I’m really sorry!” he said. “Let me get you something to put on it, I’ve got some—” he leaned to the side to toss the saturated washing up sponge into the sink.  
But Mycroft had managed to not let go of Greg completely, only relaxed his hold for Greg to move. “—No, don’t worry,” he said quickly, loathe to stop what they were doing for a mere splash of whisky on his Ozwald Boateng trousers.  
But Greg held back. “It’ll stain!” he protested, “And your trousers are expensive!”  
Mycroft could take no more procrastination. “Oh, hang the blasted trousers!” he asserted, and he demonstrated his total disregard in the state of his trousers by pulling Gregory back in and snogging him senseless instead; expensive whisky seeping through to his expensively-clad backside or not. _Couldn’t care less!_ sang his internal voice gleefully as he indulged himself by running his fingers through Gregory’s gorgeous silver hair again and again.  


They lost track of time for a while until Greg broke away again, needing to breathe, and - as if they hadn't stopped speaking for that marathon several-minute snog - took up the reins of the conversation and said in a rush, “Or you could just take them off?”  
“What are you saying, Gregory?” Mycroft asked, pink cheeked, het up, more gloriously dishevelled than Greg had ever seen him.  
_‘That you’re beautifully, strikingly, haughtily gorgeous,’_ thought Greg, and he said, “I’m saying I’d like to take you upstairs to my bed,” all his cards spread out on the table and no shame about any of them.  
Mycroft smiled in a bright splash of laughter. “Yes,” he gasped. _“Yes.”_  
Greg’s broad grin shone out then like his hair had shone so brightly under the moonlight outside. He said nothing about anything but he leaned back in carefully and kissed Mycroft gently. Mycroft kissed him back, not very gently. The kiss got more involved, Mycroft’s fingers found their way to the buttons of Greg’s shirt at chest height and stopped.  
“Look, what about the whisky on your trousers?” Greg asked, concerned about the trousers, but pretty damn interested in where the fingers were going. “It’ll definitely stain if we leave it!” he repeated and then he gasped, as the cool fingers slipped deliberately between the buttons of his shirt to encounter his bare skin.  
Mycroft smirked. “As I said, _sod them!”_ he hissed, daringly.  
Greg bubbled up with laughter at that, just as Mycroft had planned, and he caught hold of Greg while he was off-guard and laughing, and in an perfectly executed manoeuvre which resembled a dance step, guided him backwards, turning him quickly as he did so in a very tightly controlled way to spin him around and press Greg’s lovely behind further along the worktop, against the wide white edge of the vintage butler’s sink. Now their positions were switched and Mycroft was in the driving seat; much in the position that Greg had been a moment ago, standing with his feet on either side of Greg’s. “My turn to show _you_ who’s boss...” purred Mycroft as Greg landed where he wanted him, a wry saucy grin on his face.  
“Oooh _Mycroft!!”_ growled Greg comically, greatly amused but also extremely turned on by Mycroft’s expert manhandling skills. “D’you think there’s an opportunity for some job-sharin’ here...?”  
By way of answer, Mycroft went for him fiercely again, his hands everywhere; in Greg’s hair, down his neck, across his broad shoulders and over his back to slip down the sides of his thighs where they found his wonderfully pert behind, pressed against the Edwardian porcelain. Greg moaned into Mycroft’s mouth as his hands slid lower, his fingers digging into Greg’s thighs in his passionate caress. “Oh, if only you knew...” Greg mumbled as Mycroft released him.  
Mycroft stopped and drew back slightly, studying his face. “Knew what?” he asked suddenly, all focused sharp attention, like a hovering bird of prey who sees its supper in its sights.  
“....How fuckin’ often I’ve thought about doin’ this with you since that party,” Greg murmured quickly, bringing his own hands sliding up Mycroft’s back and into his coppery dark hair to claim him and bring his mouth down to Greg’s again. Mycroft was absolutely electrified; both by Greg’s actions and his use of the profanity. First there had been honesty and flirtation, and now there was honesty, flirtation and _swearing. Swearing!_ What a truly intoxicating combination. Mycroft could never in a million years have _dreamt_ that he might actually want to hear someone say such vulgar words as _that_ one in his presence. He wondered if the total divine-ness of Gregory Lestrade could possibly get any more so.

They kissed each other passionately, their bodies striving to get even closer, their hands roving; on chests, on backs, down shoulders and arms...eventually they broke for breath again, and Greg stroked his fingers back and down through Mycroft’s hair as they separated. When he looked at him, Mycroft could see immediately that Greg was worried about something. “What is it?” Mycroft asked quickly, but with some reservations as to what the answer might be.  
Hesitantly, Greg said, “Ahh, s—I’m...sorry about the swearing...” he trailed off awkwardly, feeling that maybe he’d over-stepped a line with his use of the f-word.  
Mycroft hastened to reassure him. “No,” he replied quickly, “no...” Words were failing him. “It was... _good._ It was... _fine.”_ Little did he know how much he resembled his brother at that moment. Maybe he would have been horrified to realise this.  
But Greg was simply relieved. “You don’t...ahh... _mind_ it?” he asked cautiously.  
Did Mycroft mind it? _Oh, holy Hell, no,_ was the truthful answer. _Not at all._ “No, I...I don’t,” he said, and then he added, “On the contrary...I rather...I _liked_ it.” He gasped the last few words in a rush. “Feel free to...ah...you can say it again...if you like?” he offered, almost hopefully.  
“You liked it?” Greg asked, equally hopefully.  
“I’m afraid I did,” confessed Mycroft, feeling the blush return to his cheeks, his ears.  
“Really? Oh, that’s...that’s good,” said Greg. “I...erm...I like saying it...you know... sometimes.”  
There was a very heavily charged pause. _Sometimes..._ thought Mycroft, instantly knowing exactly which kind of _’sometimes’_ Gregory was referring to. Like a match to dynamite, Greg bent and lit the fuse. “What I said earlier...” he began, “are you still...d’you still wanna...?” he tipped his head to indicate the direction of the stairs. He lifted his eyebrows and smiled.  
“Very much so,” said Mycroft, smiling back.  
Greg grinned at him and then he reached down and took Mycroft’s hand. “It’s not much tidier upstairs, I’m afraid,” he said, and turned to lead the way.

**Author's Note:**

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